Lodz, 18 November 1922
Dear, Esteemed Nephew, Sol Zissman,
Today, I received a letter from you and also $5 which you
enclosed.
Dear and devoted Shloymele, I'm sitting here now thinking
how to answer your wise and genteel letter. As a matter of
fact, I feel that my thoughts are inadequate to answer youir
wise writing. Every time, dear child, that I receive a
letter from you, I am, to put it plainly, astounded. How do
such wisdom, such good-heartedness, such refined emotions,
such a clear conscience come to such a young child? How
many years does one have to study in Europe to develop spir-
itually as much as you have, my child? At least 50 years!
And you, in such a short time, have made a career for your-
self, and your life is something to marvel at. I read in
amazement how shrewd you are with your partner (Aaron) Isaac
Anker. Your writing shows that you are not a child in
matters of trade, but a consistently good businessman who
understands how to conduct himself in the business world.
May G-d grant you good fortune in all your dealings and
courage in all your undertakings.
Now, dear and devoted nephew, concerning me and the two
remedies you suggest to me, I write the following. First, I
see that you are not of the breed of doctor who is more
interested in the dollar than in the patient. I see very
clearly that you are concerned about the patient and seek
various prescriptions, various potions with which to sustain
your ailing uncle. Yo are not, however, satisfied only with
sustaining me. You want to cure me completely, to make me
wholly well, to make me leave the sick bed entirely. As you
yourself write, you want to put me on a firm footing. The
only problem which remains is to decide. I am about to be
operated on, and you are the person doing the operating.
Will you use an anesthetic, or operate without putting me to
sleep? In either case, I am convinced that the operation
will be a success and will proceed with G-d's help.
Let's take the first case--without a sleeping draught, that
is, you were to send me a boat ticket. Until I get ready to
go, until I receive permission to go, until I arrive on the
spot, until I send for my family--all this is just like a
patient who lies on his bed and watches the doctor prepare
his operating utensils--sterilizing them, rolling up his
sleeves, then taking the knife in his hands. Meanwhile, the
patient's heart is pounding every minute.
I once watched an operation done with anesthesia. Every-
thing went so fast. One person administered the anesthetic,
a second person operated, a third bandaged the patient, and
in a few hours--behold, a new person!
Dear child, do I have the right to say what is on my mind
right now? Don't I know full well that you want to operate
on your uncle because you are truly concerned, unlike the
other kind of doctor I mentioned before? And don't I know
that if I were to come to you there, to America, I would be
far better off than struggling here? Dear child, I know all
this, but I must take the tenor of the times into account.
It is not like the old times when anyone who wanted to
travel to America went to Warsaw or Lodz, bought a ticket
for 100 rubles, needed 50 rubles more for traveleing
expenses, and on any old Saturday night could make his
"exodus." In two weeks' time, he'd be in America, and
whether the decision was good or bad would no longer matter,
because he was already there.
Under present conditions, things are completely different.
You yourself must know that, for the moment, it is impossi-
ble to travel. I see the same would-be immigrants wandering
around here for two years with visas, affidavits, even boat
tickets, and still they can't go. The reasons vary--money
owed, quotas, documents, troubles of one sort or another.
Therefore, dear and devoted nephew, as much as I would like
to, I must restrain myself from undergoing the operation
without the benefit of anesthesia, that is, I must restrain
myself, for the meantime, from coming to you.
I have already written to you once asking, if you have the
wherewithal and if it would not be a financial strain, that
you try to help me this once with a gift of $150.00. Then I
am convinced, dear child, that the operation with anesthetic
can and must work on your ailing uncle. To put it plainly,
with the money I will be able to get some sort of business
or store. I am not yet totally lost. I don't live in a
village but in a big city, and I see that with money one can
make a good living. Without it, my efforts go for naught.
In addition, dear Shloymele, I don't want you to think that
the money you will send me is charity. It will be more
like, as the Scripture says, "Casting your bread upon the
waters, for in the fullness of days you will find it." I am
still young, and I hope to heaven that I will be able to
repay you at some time. All my efforts, all my strivings,
are only so that I might not have to suffer working for
someone else, that we might not have to sleep in my in-laws'
kitchen on two metal cots.
I don't want to be rich; I am easily satisfied. I accept
whatever comes as a blessing. I never look to see who has
more than I do, only who has less. Therefore, dear Shloy-
mele, I have no great, unrealistic aspirations. Before I
started to write to you concerning the $150, my hand trem-
bled. I thought the whole thing out thoroughly. I am not
of the sort who constantly writes to America for money.
There is, Shloymele, a Polish proverb which, translated,
holds that a drowning man will grab even the sharp edge of a
knife in an attempt to save himself.
Having no other alternative, seeing what a morass I have
sunk into, no longer able to bear the heavy burdens that are
on my shoulders, I turn to you dear child as a savior, as a
sympathizer, as the right kind of doctor who interests him-
self in making me completely well.
May dear G-d help you in all your undertakings, and may this
money which you will send for the last time be a keren
kayemet, funds which will ensure my existence. Send it
right away, so that I may the sooner return it many times
over.
Your last letter has been filed in my memory. If, in the
last years before my death, I should have the energy and the
courage to write an autobiography, I will certainly not fail
to mention who my savior was, the one who made me well in
the bloom of my youth.
I will not neglect to write you what I have acomplished with
the money and what deals I have made.
One more word, dear Shloymele. We are both orphans. You
have no mother, and I have no father. Let us, therefore, be
good friends and talk our hearts out to one another.
Perhaps that will make things easier for both of us.
From your last letter, I understood that you were lonely in
America, and that you have little to do with your father.
Believe me, although I am far from you, I see everything
clearly from a great distance. Dear child, I tell you not
to worry. I wish that I were in your position. As the
Scripture says, "Rejoice young man in your youth." Live
well. Utilize all your freedoms and all the pleasures that
offer themselves to you while you are still young.
In addition, find yourself a suitable friend, a woman with
as good a heart as yours. But you must really look into her
heart to see that it is as pure, as clean, and as genteel as
yours. As it is written: "If you have found a woman, you
have found good."
With this, I close my writing. My heartfelt greetings to
you my devoted nephew and to your dear father. Write to me
about how he's doing. Hearty greetings also to your sis-
ters. Thank you very much for their pictures. Let me know
what they're doing. Are they working or still studying?
Let me know if Ruchele is finally well. When she left, she
was ill. What is Branye doing? And Rifkele, the youngest?
Write to me of your dear grandmother, of your uncles, of
everyone. How are they all doing?
My wife, children, in-laws, and brothers-in-law send heart-
felt regards. My dear mother sends her heartfelt greetings.
She was here in Lodz for a wedding given by Aunt Dina
Raisel.
Please write soon to the following adress:
Wolf Lewkowicz
Lodz ul Wolczanska #168 c/o Rotberg
P.S. I received the five dollars which you enclosed in your
last letter. I thank you very much for the money. I am
enclosing a newspaper article about the edict concerning the
3% immigration.
All material Copyright 1995 by Marshall L. Zissman and Sol J. Zissman.